


The Experiment: part VII

by Ttime42



Series: Experiment [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Acid, Corporal Punishment, Friendship, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, Paintball, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlock doesn't learn, Spanking, Stealing, Swearing, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2338364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ttime42/pseuds/Ttime42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock & John are at it again. Seventh in a series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brother Dear

The sweet strains of the violin soared through the flat as John nibbled at his breakfast. The morning sun streamed through the windows and the doctor sipped his sweetened tea, crunching on buttered wheat toast and scooping fluffy eggs‒courtesy of Mrs. Hudson‒into his mouth. Sherlock was before him at the music stand, playing Vivaldi and Bach and Beethoven as it suited him. There hadn’t been a case in a few days and they were still in that quiet hush of time where Sherlock had come down from his energetic solve-high but wasn't yet climbing (or shooting) the walls with boredom. It was calm, quiet, peaceful, and not a bit hateful.

Sherlock stopped playing mid trill as the measured pace of footsteps _thumped_ up the stairs. He caught John's gaze and sighed long and loud as Mycroft strolled into the flat in his usual smart three-piece suit, complete with black umbrella and a manila folder.

"To what do we owe the pleasure, dear brother?" Sherlock's voice was a half step below venomous and Mycroft smiled primly.

"Hi Mycroft." John said through a mouthful of toast and egg. "Tea's in the kitchen if you want any."

" _He doesn't."_ Sherlock growled.

Mycroft looked faintly appalled at John's table manners. "No, thank you, John. I shan't be long."

"Pity." Sherlock muttered.

"If you can tear yourself away from domestic bliss, I have a case you might find…entertaining."

"Not interested." Sherlock sank into his chair with a flourish of blue dressing gown and nestled his violin to his chest, plucking at the strings just to annoy his brother.

"You don't know a thing about it."

"I know I'm not interested."

John grinned into his mug, almost able to feel Mycroft draw himself up in a huff.

"You have nothing else on." Mycroft said.

"You don't know that."

" _Please._ I know what food John buys every week from Tesco in his mad attempts to get you to eat like a human being."

"Then you have entirely too much time on your hands." John piped.

Mycroft was silent for a moment, then spoke to Sherlock. "I'd hate to have to order you."

Sherlock laughed. "I'd like to see you try."

"I wouldn't need to." Mycroft's voice was impossibly smug. "I could just tell Mrs. Hudson you're being disobedient."

Clarity burst though John's mind like a fist through a plate glass window, sending shards of confusion and panic and humiliation all over his consciousness. Mycroft bloody _knew_ about Mrs. Hudson's discipline? He knew she took him and his own brother over her knee to spank them for various infractions‒Oh God, _had he watched?!_

Sherlock said nothing and John turned around in his chair. "You _too_ , Doctor?" Mycroft was grinning. "I imagine you don't get it as much as this one‒"

"Leave it!" Sherlock snapped.

"‒but then maybe you enjoy it for other reasons?" Mycroft was grinning, clearly baiting them both now that he had found a sore spot to poke. John stood up, his face flushing at the implication that he was getting off on her smacking him.

"Oi, that's uncalled for‒and untrue!"

"Get out, Mycroft."

"Tut, tut, Sherlock. I should tell her you're being rude‒that always used to get you spankings in the parlor. Perhaps John would like to join you? I could say he was being rude too‒ "

Sherlock stood up, the violin forgotten, a savage look on his face. "At least _I_ was toilet trained before the age of five!" He hissed.

John snickered maliciously and Mycroft straightened, looking down his nose at both of them. He opened his mouth to say something scathing John was sure, when Mrs. Hudson popped through the doorway in the world's worst (or best) timing.

"Good morning loves!" She set a loaf of bread on the counter top. "I noticed you were low, dears, so when I was at the shops I took the initiative. Hello Mikey!" She said cheerily.

"Myc _roft_." He muttered.

"What brings you here? Visiting your brother? That's sweet."

"Yes." Mycroft's voice was dripping with syrupy sarcasm. "Lovely as it was, I must be off."

"Oh, so soon?"

"Yes." Sherlock said. "Busy, busy, lots of people to spy on and cakes to eat. He _must_ be off."

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that John supposed was probably that last thing lots of prisoners saw before being shut away for the rest of their lives. He left without a word, taking his umbrella and the folder with.

"He seemed to be in a bit of a state." Mrs. Hudson absently poured a cup of tea and fixed it with milk, bringing it into the sitting room and setting it down in front of Sherlock.

"A bit of a bee in his bonnet?" Sherlock suggested, sipping the tea.

"More like a brother." John mumbled. They grinned at each other and Mrs. Hudson set the bread receipt down on the counter and picked a dish from the drying board, wiping it down and putting in the cabinet.

"Boys." She came into the sitting room. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Of course." John turned to her. "What do you need?"

"I'm having a new refrigerator delivered this week‒tomorrow even, maybe. Would one of you be around to help me get it situated and moved in?"

"Sure." John spoke without hesitation. "Sure, we'd be glad to. Do you want to put your food and things in our fridge for now?"

"Oh that would be lovely. Thank you, dears. I'll bring them up later." She squeezed his hand and puttered back down the steps. Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin again and John popped the last of the toast crust in his mouth as the sweet notes filled the air once more.

* * *

 

Sherlock stared at the severed eyeball two days later, angling the welding torch towards the pupil. The gelatinous fluid inside slowly melted and dripped down the optic nerve and Sherlock sighed. Bored. He reasoned he could drip the fluid into some hydrochloric acid and log the results, but the idea didn't hold much appeal. He'd done a similar experiment with keratin and sulfuric acid a few weeks ago, and he didn't feel like putting on his goggles and gloves. John would shout if he didn't and then they would argue and the whole idea was becoming more trouble than it was worth.

He turned off the torch and dropped the remains of the eye into a beaker and opened the refrigerator. It was crammed full of _food_. He wrinkled his nose at the heads that were made of cabbage instead of flesh and bone. His box of ears must have gotten shoved to the back and he closed the door sullenly. Bored.

His phone chimed‒mildly interesting‒and he picked it up.

_The fridge is here, come down and help. ‒JW_

Hm. Boring. He made a face but went down the steps to Mrs. Hudson's open door, immediately going into the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was off to the side, her face twisted in a worried 'I hope nothing goes wrong' expression. John was behind the shiny new gleaming stainless steel refrigerator, swearing and muttering in a voice muffled by the sheer size of the appliance. The room had a scent of plastic and fresh electricity about it and Sherlock stood there for a moment, watching John struggle to shove the thing back and into place. He glanced up and saw Sherlock standing there.

"Yeah‒anytime you want to jump in and help!" He nearly shouted.

"You seem to be doing just fine." Sherlock said.

John glared at him and the detective trotted over, putting his shoulder into it and shoving. Between the two of them, they managed to get it plugged in and flush against the wall without much more fuss and swearing.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight as the motor inside hummed softly to life before falling quiet. The digital display above the ice cube dispenser flashed teal and beeped. "Oh thank you, boys!" She pulled them each into a hug. "Of course," she glanced up at the ceiling, indicating their flat, "if it's not too much trouble…"

"Sherlock and I will be happy to move your food back down."

"No we won't." Sherlock groused as they went up the steps. " _You_ will be happy to move her food."

"Sherlock, you're not doing anything else. When I left for the shops this morning you were laying on the floor."

"That was this morning." He grumbled. "The criminal classes are dull and pedestrian today."

"Chin up. Maybe someone will snap and kill their crazy arse of a flatmate later today."

"I can only hope‒" Sherlock started to speak, then at John's grin he backtracked, "oh, haha, John. You couldn't kill me."

"Yes I could." John said confidently. He pushed back into their flat and opened up their fridge. "I definitely _could_ and you know it. I wouldn't though, because best friends don't kill each other." He pulled a container of hairy fingers off the shelf and frowned down at them. "No matter how badly they want to some days…" he muttered. He pushed it back inside and reached for Mrs. Hudson's leftovers.

 _Best friends._ Sherlock rolled the words over in his head. John had said it before but the novelty of it was still new and fuzzy and cozy. _Sentiment,_ that hated emotion that he had never been able to quite stamp out. He found he didn't want to stamp it out when John was around. He made it…pleasing.

"Best friends don't smack each other either." He added with a grin.

John laughed. "Yeah. That too." He passed over a container of carrots and Sherlock piled her items into a bag without another word of complaint.

* * *

 

Later that night, while he was staring at the bits of eyeball corroding in the beaker, a plan popped into Sherlock's head that was so brilliant it had him running to his bedroom and throwing open his wardrobe and flinging aside the sacred sock index without a thought. On the south side of the city, there was an underground laboratory. Not many people knew about it, but Sherlock knew from his homeless network that more than a couple drums of super acids were stored in there. His heart thudded in his chest at the thought. Super acids. Government regulated acids strong enough to corrode steel and iron in the time it took him to snap his fingers.

He was bored beyond belief, and he knew how Mrs. Hudson felt about him shooting her walls. He was hardly eager to relive the wallpaper replacement incident, but so far she had been a lot less vocal on how she felt about acids. He vaguely remembered her getting perturbed about the bomb‒but acids? She had no rules on acids! He dug around in his drawer. He still had Mycroft's ID from when they went to Baskerville. The fat git hadn't even asked for it back. Sherlock grinned, pulling out the laminated card in its black leather folio. Perfect. He flipped it open and looked at the stoic photo of his brother. Could he pretend to be Mycroft for an evening? He'd have to shower after, just to get the aura off, but he could easily do it again.

There was a lot more to it than just faking being Mycroft though. There were cameras. Security personnel. He had the blueprints of the inside of the labs, so he knew where to go once he was through the door, but getting through the door was going to be a challenge. He didn't think he could do it alone, and that's what best friends were for.

 


	2. The Gun

"John?" Sherlock hid the ID again and strode back into the sitting room.

"Hm?" The doctor was at the laptop, probably working on his blog or some silly thing.

"I need a favor."

"Oh God."

"You barely need to do anything."

"No." John kept typing.

"But you don't know what it is!"

"I'm not taking part in any of your experiments." _Clack, clackity clack._

"It's not an experiment."

John paused and looked at him. " _Not_ an experiment?"

"No. I need you to be a look out."

"Nope." _Clack, clack._

"John! Please?"

"A look out where?"

"At a, a lab."

" _Bart's_ lab?" He asked.

"No."

"This lab wouldn't happen to be like Baskerville, would it?"

"It's not Baskerville! You don't even need to leave London."

"Is it the kind of lab you need to nick your brother's ID for because Mr. and Mrs. Public are not allowed inside?"

Sherlock was quiet. He licked his lips and looked away. "Maybe."

"No."

"But--"

"‒Sherlock! I will not take part in another one of your insane lab adventures. Once was _plenty_ enough, thanks."

"I won't drug you again." Sherlock mumbled.

John laughed. "I know you won't. I'm not going."

Sherlock made a face at him and stormed off back to his room in a huff. He hadn't expected John to say yes and the good doctor had done just that. He would wear him down eventually though. He always did.

* * *

 

_The next day:_

"John, have I ever complimented you on your observation skills?"

"No. Never. Not once."

"You could out-observe Lestrade. You always see things…see people coming…notice when something is going to go amiss…"

"Subtle. I'm _not_ going to be your look out. Stop asking me."

_The day after that:_

"John, be my look out."

"Shut up."

  _The day after that:_

"If you don't help me with this, I'm never eating again!"

"Then you'll die of starvation, won't you? If you think life is boring, imagine how dull it is when you're dead."

"I'll haunt you!"

"I look forward to it."

Two days later, Sherlock strode into the flat with a large, flattish cardboard box under his arm. It was time to implement the next phase of Operation: Convince John. The doctor was in his chair with the newspaper and he narrowed his eyes as Sherlock walked by. The last time he'd entered the flat with a cardboard box, it had contained a live bomb.

"Sherlock, what is that?" He called.

"Oh nothing." He set it on the kitchen table and looked at the picture on the box with a grin on his face. To his delight, John stood up and came over, intrigued.

"A _paintball_ gun?" He blinked at it. "What's this for? A case?"

"No. Just thought it looked fun."

Not in the least, but in the name of science, sometimes lies had to be told. This gun was the fanciest one he could find. It was some sort of sniper rifle nonsense with a large pellet capacity and a compass and a silencer and all other kinds of accoutrements.

"Fun? _You_ thought this looked fun? What, does it shoot eyes instead of paintballs?"

"Not at all. Open it up, would you?" His voice was pure innocence as he went to the coffee pot and added grounds and water, smiling to himself when John tore open the cardboard flaps and slid the styrofoam packing material out. When Sherlock turned around again John had the gun up by his shoulder, squinting through the scope. His hands rested naturally on the trigger and the grip of the thing. His whole body language had changed too, his feet apart to brace his weight and his back perfectly straight as he looked around the room with it.

"Nice." He muttered. He looked over the machine, eying it with the same precision Sherlock used when he assessed a corpse.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm. I played a little paintball at Uni." He whirled around and put the gun up again, miming shooting the skull off the mantle, complete with muttered little "ka-pow, kaw-pow" sound effects. It was sort of adorable.

"I'm not sure I could shoot with that." Sherlock said, his voice innocent again. "It's bigger than I thought."

"You can shoot my pistol." John scoffed, "and that's a _real_ gun."

"True, but this is a sniper rifle. I've never tried one of those."

"It's easy. I'll show you‒are there paintballs?"

Sherlock picked up the bag of red pellets and one of the paper targets that came in the box and headed for the door. "We can go in the alley."

John was right behind him.

* * *

 

"So stand like this…" John showed him how to position his feet. "Sniping is an exercise in patience. If you were really going to snipe someone, you would need to know variables like wind speed and the distance of your target over hundreds of yards. That's clearly not the case here, though."

Sherlock listened attentively and nodded in all the right places, even though he knew all this of course.

They were in the alley behind 221. The brickwork was still charred from the exploding bin adventure but Mrs. Hudson had gotten new bins to replaced the melted blue ones. The new ones worked nicely as a place to hang a target and Sherlock and John had set it up on the far end by Mrs. Turner's skip.

"Put the gun up to your clavicle…"

Sherlock did.

"Aim and fire. Look through the scope if you want, but the target's not that far."

Sherlock fired and purposely missed, the ball going wide and striking the wall.

"Try again."

He did, aiming too wide and hitting the skip.

"It's just like shooting the pistol." John told him. "Here." He got behind Sherlock gently guided his aim towards the target. "Hold it just like this and fire." Sherlock pulled the trigger. He had no choice but to hit the target dead center.

"What on earth are you boys doing?" Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out of her kitchen window and both men froze. A quiet "shit" escaped John's mouth.

"I bought a paintball gun." Sherlock said.

"Why on earth for?"

"Because it looked fun. I need to keep my shooting skills up, Mrs. Hudson. We're out here instead of shooting the wall!"

"Hmmm." She hummed in approval. "Good. No shooting in the house! Be careful, you two." She disappeared back inside.

John stepped back. "I half expected her to shout. Or worse."

"We're outside this time. I think that helps immensely. And these are just bins. Who cares if they get splattered?"

They stayed outside for another twenty minutes or so. Sherlock feigned having poor aim until John just took the gun and pumped the last of the paintballs onto the target, soaking the whole thing with drippy red paint.

"John…" Sherlock said, watching the paint run, "about that lab, I'll need not only a look out, but a crackshot as well."

"No shooting the security guards." John teased.

"Not for the guards‒for the CCTV."

John was quiet, turning the gun over in his hands.

"Mycroft will be watching, hateful creature, but he won't be able to watch if you," he waved his hand, "disable the cameras."

"You want me to shoot the cameras out?"

"Not _permanently_ disable, just incapacitate them."

John was quiet again and Sherlock let him think, knowing better than to push. What John said next delighted him.

"A friend of mine at Uni would shoot paintballs at the school's security cameras." He said. "He was kind of a arse, but he would use white paint and then blame the mess on birds shitting on the cameras. It was ages before he got caught."

"John, that's genius!" It _was_ too. Sherlock was impressed. "I never would have expected it from you of all people!"

"Cheers." The doctor muttered. There was an excited spark in his eye as he looked over the gun again. A little voice in the back of his mind suggested that he maybe slow down and wait a moment and actually think for two seconds about what he was agreeing to do. But the big gun in his hands and the thought of pissing off Mycroft was just too exciting to think rationally about.

"We'll need some white paint if we're going to do this tonight." He said.

Sherlock was only too happy to oblige.

 


	3. Lab Results

"Okay, I've mapped out the best route for us to take to the lab." Sherlock slapped a map of the city down on the table. It was 10 pm and both men were dressed in dark colors that would easily blend in with the night shadows. John had on a pair of his darker desert camo trousers and some heavy black boots. A black Tshirt and a black beanie finished off his outfit. Sherlock had on some loose fitting black sweatpants and a black long sleeved shirt. Both were more interested in blending rather than fashion, but John would admit that it was glorious being back in his camos, clutching even a fake sniper rifle in his hands.

"There's only ten cameras on this route." Sherlock explained, one long finger tracing the highlighted streets on the map.

"How long will it take us to get there?" John asked.

"We should be there within twenty to thirty minutes‒accounting for avoiding pedestrians and the like. Once we arrive, it's a matter of disabling the cameras on the grounds of the lab. There's two of those‒each by the side entrance we're taking. Twelve cameras total. Do you think you can do it?"

"Of course." John picked up the rifle and Sherlock smirked. He had barely put the silly thing down since it had entered the flat. He'd trotted off to the shops to buy the white paintballs yesterday, a sparkly gleam in his eye not unlike the one Sherlock got when Lestrade texted him news of a triple homicide.

"The lab should be empty by 11 pm and the guards will be well into their rounds of the grounds. I've asked a few members of my homeless network to draw them away, so we should have about a fifteen minute window to shoot out the cameras and enter the building." He held up Mycroft's ID.

"You put a lot of thought into this, Sherlock. What is it that you want so bad?"

"Acid." Sherlock said calmly, pocketing the ID.

" _Acid?_ What on earth for!? ‒You have _plenty_ of acid. I should know. You like to store it in the shampoo bottles in the loo…"

"This isn't just any acid, John. This is _magic acid."_

"Magic?" John raised a brow.

"Yes! It's stronger than any acid I can get at Barts or any of the schools around here and it can corrode through almost _any_ substance in seconds! It's regulated by the _government_ of course." He groused as if this was a personal affront.

"Silly them‒they should sell it by the liter at Tesco's." John said dryly.

"Yes, thank you! I‒" He looked at John's unamused face and scowled. "You're making fun of me."

"No I'm not. I just don't think it's the wisest idea to bring super-duper acid into our flat."

"It'll be contained, John. I'll borrow the special gloves and goggles and all the proper safety equipment that you always insist on. This is a dangerous acid, no arguments there, but I know what I'm doing."

"As long as you also grab some cushions for our behinds," John added sarcastically, "we should be golden."

"What do you mean?"

"If Mrs. Hudson finds out what we're doing, there's going to be _hell_ to pay."

"But Mrs. Hudson won't find out."

"You can't promise that."

"John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The acid will be con _tain_ ed. Even if she comes up here, she won't know what it is." He grabbed his phone and scrolled through the photos. "Look‒this is a what it looks like."

John looked at the image of a very plain grey plastic container that was unmarked and unlabelled. "If she walks in here," Sherlock continued, "she'll see this and she won't think twice. She never digs too deep into my experiments anyway." He snickered.

"She's a wise woman‒she doesn't want to end up with cow blood on her hands."

"Exactly! So there's no way this will go wrong."

"Sherlock." John put the gun down and pinched the ridge of his nose. "There's about a hundred ways this can go wrong. We can get caught, for one. Thrown in jail."

Sherlock scoffed. "Lestrade won't care."

"Mycroft?" He yanked the ID out of Sherlock's pocket and waved it. "You think he's going to be perfectly okay with this?"

"He wouldn't dare do anything to me. Or you."

"Last time with the bomb thing you tried to blame _me_ for not convincing _you_ not to do something like this."

 "That was different. The bomb was live and I didn't know it. This time‒I know perfectly well how caustic this acid is. I'm a graduate chemist, I know how to handle it."

"Fine. Just consider this my warning to you: if Mrs. Hudson finds out about this," John glanced at the closed door just to make sure she wasn't coming up the steps, "she will spank us both and it will hurt."

"Consider me warned." Sherlock picked up the rifle and held it out to John. "Ready?"

* * *

 

To John's pleasant surprise, the whole crazy thing went off without a single snag. They ducked and wove through the London streets, each of them hiding in the shadows until John could shoot white goop at each camera, blocking the lens and disabling it. He felt like James Bond infiltrating a villain's lair and the gun, though more plastic than metal and shooting paint instead of bullets, was great fun to use. Sherlock knew the layout of the lab and once his homeless network distracted the patrolling guards, he snuck in and grabbed everything he needed, packing it all into a duffel bag.

"I can't believe that worked." John said, pulling off his beanie once they were back in the comfort of 221B.

"Why not?"

"Because…there were so many things that could have gone wrong."

Sherlock simply looked smug. He set the grey plastic container very carefully on the kitchen table. He put the safety goggles and gloves beside it, then rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"Are you starting tonight?" John cleared off the desk and sat down, taking the gun apart to clean it.

"Yes." Sherlock said. It was a little after midnight, but both of them were too keyed up to sleep. John wiped down the gun with the cloth that came in the box, staying well out of Sherlock's‒and the acid's‒way. The detective was right. He had a degree in chemistry and he knew what he was doing. John decided not to worry.

* * *

 

An entire week went by without any unfortunate acid incidents and John finally relaxed. Sherlock really was using the acid safely‒goggles and gloves and a special tarp and the lot. He was having the time of his life dissolving everything and anything he could get his hands on and timing the rate of decay and even recording videos of items as they dissolved away to nothing.

"John, hand me that piece of iron."

John passed over a little bar of black iron, watching Sherlock lower it down into the acid with a pair of grey plastic tongs and furiously scrawl notes as it shriveled and hissed. He'd done bones, eyeballs, ears, fingers, hair, various woods and metals, organic materials. They didn't have much rubbish to be picked up that week, as nearly everything they didn't need was recruited for the experiment. Everything from plastic wrappers to vegetable peelings went into the acid in the name of science.

It was all going so well that it was impossible to pinpoint the exact moment things started to go wrong. The days went by and both men grew used to having a tiny vat of extremely dangerous acid sitting on the kitchen table. There were no children or pets to worry about, so many times the container was just left open and one of them would even drop something into it to watch it dissolve while waiting for the tea to brew or the microwave to finish heating dinner. The novelty was still there but the danger factor had worn off since nothing had gone wrong. Mycroft hadn't even stopped by but surely he was aware of the painted camera lenses.

John was in the kitchen one evening making tea after his work shift. Sherlock was in the sitting room at the desk, typing up acid notes for his website. John had just flipped the switch on the kettle when his phone chirped on the desk in the other room. "Sherlock," he called, "can you throw me my phone?"

John saw him pick up the Android, glance over to where he was, and toss it. The phone arced through the air and fell slightly short and a lot wide of where John was standing on the side of the table. It _clonked_ into the surface and skidded across, slamming right into the open jug of acid. John yelped and leaped back as the phone's impact made nearly half of the foul liquid slosh over the side. It burned through the papers and wooden table in an instant, searing the air with a rancid wood smoke smell before rushing on towards the floor.

Sherlock was on his feet in a second, a horrified look on his face as he darted into the kitchen. John already had a pair of the special gloves on and was moving the container to a more stable surface, but as for the acid already on the floor, there was no hope. It ate away at the tile like Pac-Man chewing through dots before it hit concrete and drywall and insulation and wood and‒to both of their devastated dismays‒through the floor completely and into Mrs. Hudson's flat below.

"Mrs. Hudson, run!" Sherlock shouted through the new hole in the floor. If even a speck of the acid touched her skin, it would be a trip to hospital. Sherlock and John watched in helpless horror as the acid dripped down from the ceiling and right onto her brand new shiny refrigerator. The curved gleaming door hissed as the acid _drip-dripped_ down it, creating a sort of Dali-esque pattern of molten metal.

Both men stood there on either side of the hole, staring down in shock at the damage.

"No way that just happened." John muttered. Him and Sherlock looked up at each other, blinked, and then stared back down through the hole. Mrs. Hudson slowly came into view below, her arms folded tight across her chest as she looked up at them, an extremely unimpressed expression on her face.

 


	4. Switch It Up

The three of them all just stared at each other for a few long, dreadful moments.

"Someone explain." Mrs. Hudson said, her voice calm. Too calm.

Sherlock and John started talking very fast at the same time and gesturing wildly. She caught the words "mistake, acid" and a couple "oh God"'s before she cleared her throat.

"Are you both okay?" She didn't even need to know details yet to know that what they had done was, as John would put it, 'a bit not good.' Something had clearly, _clearly_ , gone very wrong up there and it was obvious they were well aware of that. Burning a hole in the ceiling (honestly!) was bad enough, but the ruined fridge just added insult to injury.

"Yes." They said together.

"Do you work tomorrow, John?"

"Yes."

"Until when?"

"Five?"

"What about the day after that?"

"N-no. I don't work." _Dear Lord, why is she asking?_ Visions of the cane danced threateningly in his head.

"Good." She said. "I'll deal with you two tomorrow evening and I want a damn good explanation about why this happened." She disappeared from underneath the hole and that was that.

"Now what?" Sherlock asked John, his pale face even more ashen. The stink of burning table and singed ceramic tile filled the flat and John moved to the kitchen window to open it.

He shrugged. "Move to Majorca before tomorrow evening? I don't really see any other option."

"Oh, there are other options, John."

"Like what?"

"We could move to Palermo."

* * *

 

The next morning, John pulled his jacket on and grabbed his briefcase, adjusting his collar. He'd gone to sleep last night thinking, not about _how_ she would punish them, but about how _badly_ she would punish them. And he was absolutely certain it was a 'we' this time. Sherlock may have been the brains behind it all‒as usual‒but John had eagerly gone along with it, even enjoying shooting at the cameras and breaking into the lab. He'd had nothing to do with the bomb, or the time Sherlock got shot. The cow organs he'd happily accepted 50% responsibility for. The idiot prank war was, in hindsight, sort of fun‒but being pulled over Mrs. Hudson's knee and enduring her spoon sure hadn't been, even if it did mean he was 'in' now.

Sherlock wandered past him and poured a cup of coffee.

"How are you doing?" John asked. "Nervous?"

"Mm." Sherlock swallowed his coffee. "Palermo is beautiful this time of year. As is Lisbon, if you're interested in learning a little Portuguese."

"My Italian is better than my Portuguese." John muttered. He made sure he had his keys and phone‒which had miraculously survived the acid spill unharmed‒and headed for the door. "See you tonight."

"Bye, John."

Sherlock watched him go, glad that the doctor was in this with him, no matter how unpleasant it would be. It was…nice, to not be dreading this alone. The day itself was quiet and uneventful. Sherlock sealed the acid tight and put it hidden away under the kitchen sink behind a bucket and some cleaner. Mrs. Hudson would probably want him to throw it all away after tonight, and he sure as hell didn't want to do that after the trouble he took to get it.

He picked up his phone a couple hours later and texted John.

_What do you think she'll hit us with? ‒SH_

_Is it too much to hope for the spoon? Jesus, I never thought I'd be saying that. JW_

Sherlock glanced at the fireplace and made a face at it before texting back.

_I think so. The belt was awful. ‒ SH_

_Good to know. I have a patient‒gotta go. JW_

At 4:30, John texted him. _Should I pick up dinner? We're not going to feel like cooking. ‒JW_

Sherlock wrote back. _Sure. Whatever you want. ‒SH_

John came home around 5:30 with a bag of Chinese. He stuck it in the fridge for later. For after.

"Hey." He said to Sherlock. The detective hummed. He was at his computer again, logging more acid experiment results.

"John!?" Mrs. Hudson called up through the hole. "Are you home?"

"Tell her no!" Sherlock hissed. John rolled his eyes.

"Just walked in." He rubbed his head as footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Nerves gripped his stomach and the look Sherlock gave him said he was feeling the same thing. It was silly, he reasoned. He didn't even _need_ to endure this. It was optional. He could say no to her smacking him and that would be that. There would be no repercussions, at least not…tangibly. Sherlock would certainly still take what she handed out, but now that he'd agreed the one time, how could he say no now? John took a deep breath. He had screwed up, pissed off Mrs. Hudson, nearly got her injured, and now he was nervous about the spanking simply because it would hurt. He'd been hurt plenty of times. The last spanking had been unpleasant for sure, but he'd survived and he was 'in' now. His friendship with Sherlock had only improved since that first smacking with a sort of mild war bond between them now. Even Mrs. Hudson was warmer and more tactile towards him--not that she had ever been cold.

"Boys." Mrs. Hudson walked through the kitchen and looked down at the gaping hole. Sherlock stood up and crept into the kitchen, standing beside John. "Goodness." She said, looking up at them. "What on earth did this? You're both alright?" She came to John and squeezed his arm, glancing him up and down as if she was going to see a boil of sizzling acid on his leg or such. Satisfied, she moved to Sherlock and brushed some stray strands off his forehead, giving him the same glance.

"It was, um, acid." Sherlock said. She raised a brow and he kept talking. "It spilled and ruined the floor."

He decided to leave as much detail out as possible until she pressed him for it. No use digging their graves deeper.

"John, were you involved?"

"Yes." He said.

"Well c'mon boys, give me more than that. This wasn’t caused by lemon juice." She gestured to the floor. "From the beginning, I want the whole story."

So, reluctantly, Sherlock began talking about his idea to get the acid and then recruiting John for it. The doctor spoke as well, and gradually the whole story came out. Mrs. Hudson remained quiet and calm throughout to let them speak.

"So to reiterate," she said at the end, "you took your brother's ID. You damaged city property. You broke into a government lab to steal, then you ruined my floor and my refrigerator."

"Um, basically." John murmured.

"Okay." She said. She wasn't shouting. She seemed more concerned and amazed at the whole escapade if anything. "John, you don't work tomorrow, correct?"

That she was even double-checking was sort of terrifying.

"Yeah. I have the next two days off."

"Good. I'd hate for you to be too sore to work."

Oh God.

She reached into her apron and pulled out a small folding knife, which she handed to Sherlock. He took it, puzzled. For a brief, stupidly hysterical moment, John thought the knife was the punishment, that she was going to make them cut themselves or each other. The idea disappeared in a fog before it could even form completely and he chided himself an idiot. She would swat them and it would hurt, but she would never do anything sadistic or abusive like that. What she said next made John wonder if a knife wound would be better.

"I want both of you to go to Regent's Park, cut two switches, then get back here. Don't make any detours. You have twenty minutes. Understand?"

" _Swi_ tches?!" Sherlock yelped. John's jaw dropped.

"Yes, Sherlock." She snipped. "Switches. From a tree. A couple feet long."

They both stared at her, shock rooting them to the spot. John nearly, _nearly_ called the whole thing off and refused.

"You won't get it bare." She said, trying to mollify their horrified expressions. "This really was monumentally stupid, boys." She scolded. "Acid?! Breaking into government property‒my floor _and_ my fridge! I think something harsher than a spoon or my hand is appropriate, don't you?"

She did have a point there.

"You can't use the spoon?" John asked.

"Sherlock burned them all, and besides, the spoon is clearly too mild. I didn't get through to either of you with it before, and this is far worse! At least that bile and blood came out of the furniture! This burned a hole clean through my ceiling. I hate to have to go too harsh with you boys. The belt was hard enough‒"

Sherlock licked his lips and looked down.

"‒and I'm _not_ taking a cane to either of you."

Sherlock shuddered, wondering if the switch would be as bad as the cane.

"Thank you for that." He said.

"You're welcome." Her voice was still tense and tight. "I worry about you two. You do such odd things…"

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock murmured, pulling her into a hug. "I don't do it to make you worry."

"I know." She stepped back. "You boys just need a reminder now and then not to go too insane and burn down London. Now go!" She pointed at the door.

Her words spurned them both into action and John grabbed his jacket and Sherlock his coat before they both trotted down the steps and out the door.

"Oh my God." John moaned once they were on the pavement. He stood there for a moment, just half bent over with his hands on his knees before he straightened and they trotted up Baker Street. "Has she ever switched you before?"

"No." Sherlock said grimly. John sighed again as they strode up the pavement towards the park.

"It's seriously tempting to hail a cab and go to Heathrow." He eyed the passing black cabs longingly.

Sherlock chuckled, despite it all. "Palermo?"

"I was thinking Madrid. Or Reykjavik."

"That seems a little drastic."

"Drastic times and all." John answered. "You're being awfully quiet about this."

"What's there to say? I messed up."

_"We_ messed up."

"I'm sorry, John." His tone was quietly sincere as they stood at the pedestrian crossing.

"That's okay. It wasn't all your fault."

"Yes." Sherlock knew this was going to be one of the more unpleasant spankings she had ever given. The spoon hurt badly enough, but a whippy little tree branch would be wretched. There wasn't much to say.

"I shouldn’t have agreed." John said as they crossed Marylebone. "Why the hell do I always agree with you? I knew she would smack us."

"I convinced you to agree with me." Sherlock pointed out.

"I could have said no."

"John. I'm very persuasive. You know that."

"Still shouldn't have agreed with you. I should have told you no."

"You _did_ tell me no."

They went into the park and off the path a bit until they were in a copse of tall trees. They both stared up at the lowest branches that began a solid four feet above Sherlock's head.

John stared up at them. "How lenient do you think she'd be if we came back empty handed and said the trees were too tall?"

Sherlock laughed, and after a moment, John did too.

"You want to try that," Sherlock said, "go right ahead. Just give me a head start going to the airport."

They laughed some more, the situation seeming funnier than it was given the ridiculous circumstances. "I can give you a boost?" John suggested.

"I'll cut yours and hide them in my coat. No point alerting the whole park to our fate."

John clasped his hands and braced himself. Sherlock put his foot in John's cupped hands and held his shoulders, balancing. A few curious passersby glanced over.

"Ready?" John said, feeling stupid.

"Yes."

"On three, then. One, two, _three_!" He boosted and Sherlock shot up into the branches, grabbing hold of one and scrabbling to get his footing before disappearing into the boughs.

"Anything?" John called after a moment.

"Unfortunately."

John scowled and a few minutes later Sherlock jumped to the grass, one hand hidden in the breast of his coat. "Here…" He lifted the lapel away and showed John two lethally long switches. "Seem okay?"

"I'm sure she'll be satisfied." John murmured.

They went back to the flat in silence, both mentally preparing themselves for the switch.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the wonderful comments/review/kudos, everyone! I'm glad you all enjoy this AU as much as I do. It's in the next chapter, I promise!


	5. Who First?

All too soon they found themselves in Mrs. Hudson's flat, standing before her. The switches were on the low table in front of her sofa.

"Do we need to discuss why this is happening?" She asked. Two lowered heads shook penitently.

"I'll remind you anyway while I trim these down." She picked up one of the switches, long and dark with springy green fresh growth on one end. It was knobby and bits of leaf and twig stuck out at odd angles. She opened the little knife and began scraping at the thin branch, making it smooth. They both watched her trim the switch, feeling sick.

"I hate having to resort to this." She said conversationally, "but acid! Goodness. For most other landlords this would be grounds for eviction." _Scrape, scrape_. The bits of leaf fell to a pile on the table. "Not that I would ever evict you dears, not after what you did for me, Sherlock." She looked at him graciously for a moment, the expression belied somewhat by the knife and switch in her hands. "You boys really did it this time." She eyed the trimmed switch, was satisfied, and set it down. She picked up the other one and gave it the same treatment. "I hope this lesson sticks with you both and sticks well. You _do not_ steal government property and you _do not_ bring dangerous chemicals into 221! You could have hurt yourselves or each other."

"Or you." Sherlock mumbled. Just the thought that she could have been in the kitchen at that moment made both men shudder.

"Well, yes. Me too. It was a bad decision, and for what? Some experiment?"

"I wanted to measure the decay rates." Sherlock's voice was nearly a whine, and John knew that even while faced with a switch, he still didn't completely regret doing what he did. The doctor doubted he ever would. Common sense didn't seem to exist in the detective's mind palace when he had a crazy idea in his head, no matter what the consequences were and John knew he wouldn't prefer it any other way.

Mrs. Hudson hummed in disapproval. "You crossed the line‒both of you! Think about how dangerous this was while you're bent over my sofa." Satisfied with her work on the switches, she folded the knife again, put it down, and looked at them expectantly.

"Who first?" She asked. Not surprisingly, there wasn't a slew of raised hands. "John?" She asked. "Sherlock went first last time you both deserved this, why don't you go first now?"

Oh God. He wanted to go never.

"A-Alright." He murmured.

"Good lad." She patted the back of the smaller sofa. "Take your trousers down and bend over here."

John moved to the spot behind the sofa and unbuttoned and unzipped. He pushed his jeans to his knees and carefully bent over the hip-high sofa. The scent of her perfume and the upholstery was delicate on his nose.

"Scoot forward." She patted his cheek with the switch. He did, wriggling forward and getting his hip bones propped up on there more. His arse jutted right out and he scowled at the sofa cushions. The air was cool on his thighs and his navy boxer-briefs felt pathetically thin and useless, stretched across his bottom. They protected his modesty somewhat, but not much, and he squirmed in discomfort. Something about a non-lover or a doctor getting such a view of him wasn't thrilling. It was nothing she hadn't seen before, what with her nannying Sherlock and Mycroft and raising her own four boys, but it wasn't his idea of a good time to be exposed like this with his best friend's and his landlady's eyes watching.

"Sherlock." She said. "Sit there." She pointed with the switch at the other sofa and he sat, facing them both. John glanced up and met his friend's eye. They shared an encouraging look and John felt steadying fingers on his back. He hoped his military training would come in handy again and he took a deep breath.

The first lick landed without much fanfare, and John startled hard. It stung. It stung like hell‒and it was just the first snap. He took another deep breath and winced at the second one, growling out a colorful swear. He wouldn't get out of this without tears, not if the wild stinging kept up the way it was. A third snap had him reaching automatically for a nearby throw pillow. He hugged it to his chest‒teasing later be damned‒and squeezed tight. Another _thwip_ and he jerked again, refraining from kicking back. He didn't want to kick her by accident. Instead he stepped his feet apart and flexed his toes on the floor.

"Legs together, John." She told him. "I don't want to hit you too low down there."

Oh. _Oh._ Right, sensitive bits and all. He pulled his feet back together and she continued with the _thwips_ , snapping the switch over his covered cheeks. He focused on his breathing the way he had before, but it was a lot harder this time. The back of the sofa was digging into his hips and the switch bloody hurt a hell of a lot more than the spoon had. There was no throb at all but the _sting_ was blazing and prickling like nothing else. He never thought he'd ever be wishing for the spoon or hell a _paddle_ would probably be softer than this. He breathed raggedly into the pillow as his arse heated up and he stomped his foot when a lash crossed his thigh.

"Ow! Mrs. Hudson…" He grunted. Next time, he was saying 'no' to Sherlock. Next time, he wouldn't put himself in this situation where he broke the law and got switched for it. The gun _had_ been fun, but this switching sure as hell wasn't. Another _snap_ and he jerked. It was _impossible_ to stay still. She wasn’t demanding he do so, thankfully, or they'd be here all night. Another _snip_ and he stomped his foot again. His eyes burned with tears and his nose was getting runny and he reached up to wipe his eyes, blinking first to clear them, then again in confusion when he realized she'd stopped. Her fingers were at his waistband, and then she was carefully lowering his pants to his thighs‒presumably to check the damage. The cool air felt good on his cheeks and he didn't care one ounce that she was seeing his bare arse. All of Baker street could wander through the front door right now and he wouldn't care if they saw his arse‒the switch had stopped, that's all that mattered.

"Okay, John…hush…" She pulled his pants back up and patted his shoulder, stroking his back firmly. "It's done. That was _very_ brave. It hurt, I know…"

He couldn't have been bent over for more than a few minutes, but it felt like a nest of pissed off hornets had settled on his bum. That was easily much worse than the spoon over her knee‒and he couldn't even imagine her giving it to them bared. He shuddered at the thought and breathed deeply.

"John?" She patted his back and he lifted out of the pillow, straightening up and wiping a finger over his eye.

"Oh love." She saw his teary face and cradled the side of it, looking at him with eyes full of sympathy. "You need to learn to say no to him now and then. The crime fighting is fine but use your good judgment now and then."

He nodded and sniffled, feeling like a boy getting chastised by his mother with his jeans still around his knees. "I'll get you some water…" she bustled off to the kitchen and John glanced over at Sherlock, watching him with wide, scared eyes and an open mouth.

"It's rough." He said with an embarrassed smile. She returned with the water and John sipped it gratefully. His bottom was still stinging hot and she cooed over him a bit more before he tugged up his jeans and shuffled to the sofa, choosing to stand by it rather than sit. He understood why she had asked about his work schedule. He would surely feel this tomorrow, and the ache of it would be frustrating to ignore at work.

"Sherlock." She said. She grabbed the other switch and snapped it smartly against the top of the back of the sofa. "Your turn."

He rose and nodded to himself, walking over and unfastening his trousers like John had. The doctor stood there nursing his water and Sherlock glanced again at his red eyes. John was the strongest person he knew. If _he_ had cried Sherlock knew he didn't stand a chance. He pushed his clothes down, revealing white boxer-briefs, and bent over. He snatched up the pillow and clutched it to his chest. His legs were longer, so he didn't need to adjust as much.

He didn't want John to watch him get punished and cry. He didn't want _anyone_ to. Though, he supposed, if anyone had to witness this, John would be the one he'd choose. He would think twice next time before he asked John to join him on any 'insane lab adventures' as the doctor put it. Seeing him get switched had been hellish. Suppose the good doctor decided it was all too much and he didn't want to be his best friend anymore? What if he moved out? Sherlock licked his lips, his brow pinched in worry at thought. He was so consumed by the fantasy of John leaving that the first sharp _thwip_ caught him by surprise.

He yelped and jerked up, the pain of it flashing across his arse in a burst of lightning. John, by the other sofa, winced and looked down at his glass of water. She whacked again and he writhed to the side, the sting hot and sharp. Another _thwick_ and buried his face in the pillow, growling at the fabric. No way would he last. Already tears were gathering in his eyes.

"Hold still." She told him, not unkindly. He squeezed the pillow harder and Mrs. Hudson rested her hand on his back before thwacking him again.

"Ow!" He yelped. "Ow‒Mrs. Hudson!" He grit his teeth and hung his head, wailing a little at the next lash.

"I know it hurts." She told him, "but you boys really went off the deep end here. No more acid!" She _snapped_ the switch across his bum again and he hissed, standing up completely and covering his bottom with his hands.

"Sherlock." She said sharply. "You know better."

He did. Both about the acid and about staying in place. He bent again, rubbing his hands over his face.

"A few more now, love." She said in a soothing tone. "A few more."

He stomped his feet and groaned into the pillow as the promised 'few more' lashes rained down on his arse. She was pulling on his shorts a moment later and he sighed, tentatively hopeful. She'd done that right when she finished with John. The doctor had been so much braver than him. He didn't even care that she was seeing his bare bottom. It wasn't like she hadn't seen it before. He glanced at John. He was still standing, his head hanging a bit as he looked very humbled.

"Do you need more?" She asked.

He lifted his head in alarm and looked over his shoulder at her and the severe, firm look on her face. "No!" He yelped. Hell, did she honestly think he would say 'oh yes please'?

"Will you ever manipulate John and steal from your brother and break into a government facility again?"

He shook his head wildly, his curls flying around his face. "No! No, no."

Her expression softened and she looked at him fondly. "I hope I can believe that. Alright, then. You’re done."

She replaced his underwear and put the switch on the sofa. She petted his back and he dropped the pillow weakly, wiping his eyes. "All done." She said. Sherlock took a few steadying breaths and rose. She wiped a few tears from his cheeks, making little sad noises as she saw the state of him. His face was tearstained and his shirt rumpled and he gratefully took the offered glass of water before tugging up his trousers but leaving them unfastened.

"You boys need to stop doing such dangerous, illegal things." She admonished softly. "It would be so hard to lose one of you‒and for what? Because you decided to go play with some volatile chemical? You two are like brothers. Imagine if you lost each other. I don't want to have to go to one of your funerals!"

"Sorry." Sherlock's voice was hoarse and dull. He sipped the water.

"Me too." John murmured.

"And on another, far less important note‒the repairs to this building aren't free‒and neither was that _refrigerator_!" Now her tone was more scolding. "This is going on both of your rents!"

John nodded. That wasn't surprising. Fortunately the fridge technically still worked just fine, it was just that the door looked awful.

"Sherlock," she said, "I want you to dispose of that acid safely. _Today."_

He nodded and sipped his water and her face softened. "Oh, there, there." She hugged him, then John.

"Go on upstairs now and tend to yourselves. I went to the shops earlier and I have ice cream if you want it later."

"What kind?" Sherlock asked, perking up.

"One's pistachio, the other is cookies and cream."

How she knew their favorite ice cream flavors wasn't something John was going to dwell on. He snagged the switches off the sofa, ignoring Sherlock's horrified look, and trudged up the steps with him into the sitting room.

"John Watson, you get those monstrosities out of this flat right this instant." Sherlock whirled and pointed at the switches in disgust. John smirked.

"Never thought I'd hear _you_ say that about anything in here. I was thinking we could have a nice fire tonight. We already have the kindling."

Sherlock's eyes widened in delight. " _Ex_ cellent idea." He grabbed the matchbook and got a little fire going behind the grate. John passed one switch over and Sherlock eyed it thoughtfully. "Throw yours in." He said. "I have an idea for mine."

They both relished the few seconds it took John to snap the bloody awful thing in half and fling it into the crackling logs, watching in complete satisfaction as it went the way of the spoons.

"What are you doing with yours?" John asked.

Sherlock grinned and went to the kitchen, getting under the sink and‒John's jaw dropped as he gently pulled a very familiar grey container into the light.

"Palermo it is." He muttered to himself. "Jesus _Christ,_ Sherlock!" He glanced quickly at the hole in the floor and lowered his voice, lest she hear this. "Are you out of your mind?! Why do you still have that anywhere near here?"

"Oh relax." Sherlock said. He slipped the gloves on and pried the lid off, grinning as he lowered the switch into the liquid. It hissed and burned and was eaten away in moments. There was something kind of poetic and immensely satisfying about destroying the switch with the very acid that earned them the switch in the first place.

"Boys!" Mrs. Hudson yelled up through the hole and both men exchanged looks of pure terror.

"Yes?" John called after a moment. His heart thudded in his chest.

"Will you want cones or bowls for your ice cream?"

Sherlock exhaled in a long breath, pushing the lid back on the acid and sliding it back away under the sink. "Cone." He muttered.

"Cones please!" John called back.

Silence from below and John shook his head at the near miss. He turned to go to the loo to examine the damage and Sherlock trotted after with his phone. They both caught each other's gazes in the mirror and burst out laughing.

"What," John managed between breaths, "what's the phone for?"

"I'm gathering data, John."

"You mean you're taking pictures of your own bum?"

"It's _data_." Sherlock said. "It's not vanity." He turned and lowered his trousers and pants in front of the mirror. They both hissed at the sight. Angry red and pink welts crossed both of his cheeks, standing out bright on his skin. He snapped a few photos.

"Budge over." John edged his way in front of the mirror and lowered his clothes as well. His bum looked similar, all red lines and sore skin. "This was a tough one." He murmured.

"Yes. I may think twice next time."

"That's a first." John snorted and grabbed the lidocaine from the cabinet. Sherlock eyed it greedily. "In a second…" John said, popping it open and squeezing some of the gel out. He reached back and rubbed it across his sore skin, sighing as the gel cooled it off.

"The worst of it will be gone within the hour." John told him, passing the tube over. Sherlock applied the same gentle motions to his own butt, and both of them were sighing in contentment. The detective went to his bedroom and strode down the hall moments later, having changed into his dressing gown and some soft cotton sleep trousers. "Ice pack?" He called.

John smirked and stepped out of his jeans completely. It was weird how her discipline was becoming a bonding experience for them. Nice, yet incredibly odd too. Most flatmates bonded over shared meals or friends. Not crime scenes and corporal punishment. They were hardly most people though.

"Of course." He called back. He went upstairs to change into soft trousers and Sherlock tossed him an ice pack when he came back into the sitting room.

"You'll never do something so ridiculous that it would get you killed in the name of science, right?" John's tone was light as he stretched out on the sofa with the ice on his backside, but he meant it. Mrs. Hudson had made an excellent point downstairs. If Sherlock was killed by one of his own stupid experiments, John would have a hell of a time coping with that. He would survive, of that he was sure, but it would be…bad.

"Of course not, John." Sherlock scoffed. He eased into a chair and sighed as the lidocaine started to work it's soothing magic. "I told Franklin at Baskerville it would be tremendously ambitious to kill me, even for _me._ "

John smirked and closed his eyes. That ice cream sounded good, but for now, he lay peacefully, listening to the quiet familiar sounds of home.

* * *

 


	6. Watch Out

John and Sherlock were in the sitting room companionably having breakfast a few mornings later, swapping sections of the paper and chatting idly about the articles. The sting had faded almost completely from their bottoms, leaving just a lingering tenderness that was completely manageable assuming neither sat down too fast on a hard surface. A muffled knock downstairs made them both glance up, and Sherlock scowled at his brother's familiar tones chatting with Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

"What does _he_ want?" Sherlock muttered.

"Probably wants his ID back."

"He'll never get it. It's far too useful and much safer in my hands."

They both laughed at that and Mycroft sauntered into the room, a humorless smile on his face as he watched them giggle.

"Feeling better, are we?" He asked. "Mrs. Hudson wasn't too hard on you then after all?"

"What, Mycroft?" Sherlock snipped. "Why are you here? Spit it out."

"Touchy." Mycroft tutted at his brother. "I don't think she quite got through to you."

"It's none of your business." Sherlock told him. But Mycroft was far from done.

"And Doctor Watson, I was surprised that you went through with the punishment as well. Though I suppose I shouldn't be. You _did_ damage my cameras. You deserved the spanking as much as my brother did."

"Just a social call, or is there a purpose to your visit?" John asked, his tone irritated and edgy that Mycroft was teasing them about this again. Sherlock snickered.

"Rude." Mycroft scolded. "I should call Mrs. Hudson back up here."

"Why, dear?" The landlady breezed through the door with a paper bag of food that she set on the counter before she put two slices of bread in the toaster.

"Because," Sherlock began, "Mycroft thinks John and I are being rude."

"Mycroft, dear, don't think that because you're the British government you can't still go over my knee."

John and Sherlock both laughed loud and hearty and Mycroft's neck flushed with strawberry-colored indignation. "I would let you do no such thing." He told her.

"Keep antagonizing John and your brother and you won't get a choice." She scolded. Mycroft blinked, clearly affronted, before he spluttered something about a meeting and left the flat.

"Here you are." She brought more toast to the table, not phased at all by Mycroft's humiliation.

"Thanks, Mrs. H." John grinned at her and took some toast. She kissed his forehead. Sherlock glanced up, his bottom lip out in a jealous pout, before she cooed and hurried over to him, kissing his forehead as well before leaving.

"Would she?" John asked, crunching on his toast. "Get Mycroft, I mean?"

Sherlock grinned devilishly and turned a page. "I hope so, John. I _really_ hope so."

 

The End 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments and kudos, everyone! This part 7 is the most popular yet of this series and I'm thrilled. I'm glad you like to read it as much as I enjoy writing it J
> 
> Magic Acid is real, though I took major liberties with it for the story.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos are, as always, appreciated.


End file.
